


names i called you behind your back

by postcardmystery



Category: Justified
Genre: Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postcardmystery/pseuds/postcardmystery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We don’t have a relationship,” says Raylan, and Boyd shakes his head, says, “Then that shows what you know, don’t it, Raylan.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	names i called you behind your back

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for physical child abuse.

“Do you ever wonder what we’d be like, Raylan, all turned ‘bout the other way ‘round?” says Boyd, and Raylan’s fingers clasp, automatic, over the star on his belt, doesn’t meet Boyd’s (all too knowing) eyes.

 

His Daddy didn’t understand it, but then, no one did, a Givens and a Crowder, because business is business, but friendship, that’s something else, ( _but better a Crowder than a fuckin’ Bennet_ , Arlo had said, his voice nasal with hatred), and Raylan, well, he didn’t rightly understand it, either, wasn’t even sure that Boyd did, (but he’d  _say_  he did, if he asked him, Raylan knew that, too), but Raylan knew some, other, more important things, like that there was only so many times a man can save your life before you drink with him, even in a dry county, like there was something that flickered behind Boyd’s eyes, not quite a dare, not quite not, like when Boyd said,  _I’ll leave this town, or own it_ , and Raylan, a Givens on a barstool next to a Crowder, he couldn’t help believing him.

 

“I will admit of my own free will, I ain’t been in a police station for many legitimate purposes, Raylan,” says Boyd, and Raylan sighs, rubs at his eyes, says, “Still ain’t sure you are now, Boyd.”

“Now, now,” says Boyd, raising an eyebrow, “that is mighty impolite of you, Deputy Givens.”

“I’m a ‘deputy’, now, am I,” says Raylan, folding his arms, and Boyd grins, says, “Well, so you’re always tellin’ me, Raylan.”

 

He had saved his life,  _has_ , a good few times, he knew it then and he knows it now, because put a gun in Boyd Crowder’s hand and he becomes something Old Testament, something that deserves words like ‘wrath’, ‘avenging’, ‘Biblical’, something that  _burns_ , and it’s only fitting that he’s a man who likes to strike a match, press a button, blow shit up, because Boyd Crowder burns, always has, and whether he’s preaching hellfire or rocket-launchers, whether he wants to save your soul or damn it, he still has that same look when he meets Raylan’s eyes, steady and mad as hell and if he can’t have this town, Raylan knows, curling hot in his stomach, all those years making no difference, he still  _knows_ , knows that if Boyd can’t have Harlan, no one else will, either.

 

“I told people that you said I saved your soul,” says Raylan, and Boyd’s face remains impassive as he says, “Maybe you did.”

“I thought you were over the whole Faulkner crazy-ass man of God thing,” says Raylan, and Boyd shrugs, says, “I don’t dispute that God and me are no longer on the same page, master and servant, as it were, Raylan, but I know my scripture all the same.”

“Like you’d serve anyone but yourself,” says Raylan, a little incredulous, and Boyd points to a scar on his neck, says, “Seventeen years, almost to the day,” smiles.

 

His Daddy thought some other things, too, but it took a good few years for Raylan to realise that one, that a raised eyebrow, a cruel word, bruises that he could only hide a good half of the time, they were twice as likely and three times as vicious on the days that Boyd came by, those glasses on his face that he shouldn’t look good in, sorta did, came by and smiled at his Momma and called his Daddy ‘Mr Givens’, he should’ve seen the way Arlo looked at him, at the both of them, but he didn’t, and when Boyd picked him up the next morning, he’d have new bruises to hide, new bruises that’d be cross-hatched later, and he never told, not even when Boyd said,  _I won’t tell, Raylan_ , much too gentle and much too kind, because, as it turns out, years later, there are two things, instead of only one, that Raylan doesn’t think he’s ever going to be able to tell. 

 

“You think I care that you hate me?” says Raylan, in a sudden rush of fury, and Boyd frowns, says, “Don’t think that’s quite the word I’d use, it is not awash with  _ambiguity_ , as it were.”

“Ambiguity?” says Raylan, his eyebrow raised, and Boyd laughs, says, “Does the fancy lawman not know what ‘ambiguity’ means? Oh, the Lord is just handin’ me free shots today.”

“You think we have an ambiguous relationship?” says Raylan, and Boyd laughs again, says, “What do you think we have, if you were called upon to define it?”

“We don’t  _have_  a relationship,” says Raylan, and Boyd shakes his head, says, “Then that shows what _you_  know, don’t it, Raylan.”

 

He doesn’t stand like army, that’s the first thing Raylan noticed, when he drove out to his stupid hovel of a palace, words he knew Boyd didn’t believe daubed on the walls, that mockery dancing, the way it always did, behind Boyd’s eyes, ( _I know you know I ain’t this stupid_ ), and he didn’t know what to tell Art about him, still doesn’t, because he didn’t stand like army, but then there was a gun in those hands, a hole through that chest, and Boyd Crowder don’t stand like army, but then, he don’t quite stand like anything else.

 

“You gonna kiss me or hit me, boy?” says Boyd, and Raylan’s hand is on his star, his gun, his heart.


End file.
